


Terribly wrong

by ElenyasBlood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Brother Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenyasBlood/pseuds/ElenyasBlood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Sam is on a teenager party he gets attacked by some local thugs.<br/>Bruised and battered he calls Dean for help - and Dean comes. </p><p> </p><p>  <b>If you get triggered by blood, injuries, vomiting or after care you should be careful with that story.</b></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sam is 13 in this.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Terribly wrong

Sam's voice was thin and even to himself he sounded wimpy and pathetic, but he couldn't help it.

“D-Dean?” he whispered the moment he heard rustling noises on the other end of the line along with his brother's voice, heavy with slumber and blurred around the edges. Which was, to be honest, mostly because Sam was having a hard time listening to anything but the blood thundering through his ears.

“Sammy? What's the matter? Having fun with the ladies?”

Sam bit back a gagging noise as he felt his stomach turn and bile rising in his throat.

“Actually...” he coughed and tried to steady his breath against the speaker, but _fuck_ , his flanks hurt like a bitch. And so did his thighs and belly. And his chest, _god_ , his chest felt like someone had dropped a heavy-ass weight on it and with every inhale his ribcage became tight and tighter. “Actually, I called because-” a rattling breath seeped through the speaker as Sam's lungs clenched- “b-because I need you to pick me up, De.”

“Sammy? Are you okay? Are you drunk?” Dean sounded alert, his voice a sharp ring in Sam's pained ears.

“Not drunk,” he slurred and felt his stomach churn as he managed to roll onto his side. “Just...”

“Are you in trouble?”

Sam took another deep breath and this time the ache in his chest became so fucking overwhelming that he felt tears swelling in the corners of his eyes. “Kinda,” he grunted and pressed his already swollen cheek against the cold, damp asphalt, trying to soothe the pounding pain away. “I got into a fight and I just... I just r-really -” He cut himself off as he broke into a rattling coughing fit and winced at the pain that exploded beneath his ribcage.

“Sammy, you okay? Fuck, where are you?”

“I just really need you...to... pick me up, okay?” Sam finished his sentence and a small whimper forced itself out of his heaving chest. It still seemed like all wind was knocked out of him and every inhale felt like someone kicking him in the guts repeatedly. _Again._

“On my way. Is your GPS on?”

“No, they... they have the other phone... listen I'm in the p-parking...” His voice trailed off as he tried to remember.

“Parking lot? Where? Can you see any buildings near you?”

Sammy could nearly taste the panic in Dean's voice, ringing through the speaker and gripping his heart, squeezing it tight. He swallowed it, along with the sour taste of gastric acid on his tongue.

“Library,” he choked out and tried to ignore the flow of warmth running from his temple and onto the cold ground, a small rivulet of crimson red steadily seeping into the unforgiving asphalt.

“'M on my way. Hold on, Sammy, I'll be right there!” Dean roared and Sam could hear more rustling noises as his brother picked up the keys and dashed out of the motel room. “I come and get ya, Sammy, just stay with me, okay? You okay?”

“No,” Sam replied simply and heard Dean gasp.

“Stay awake, okay, Sammy? Can you do that for me, huh? Stay awake?”

Sam felt a wave of nausea washing over him and he coughed again, blood spilling past his lips along with a string of spit and acid. “Yeah, but... just hurry, okay... I need you to... pick me up, De, hurry.”

He heard the engine of the Impala kicking to life.

“Be right there, little one. I'm on my way, just stay focused, okay; remember what we taught you. Stay awake,” Dean's voice rang in Sam's ears and the boy squeezed his eyes shut, not willing to spill tears right now, not willing to give in. Or give up.

“Yeah,” he mumbled and felt the phone slipping out of his blood-covered fingers. “And don't tell Dad, Dean, don't t-” And then the line was dead and Sam spilled the rest of his dinner onto the ground, stomach acid, blood and soup mixing with rain and mud. The last thing he could think of was Dean; Dean and Dean, and Dean again, and he dragged his knees up towards his chest, grasped them hard and rolled onto the other side before his vision went dark for a long time.

And that's how Dean found him: curled into himself, a tiny ball of aching bones and bruised skin, lips split and knuckles swollen.

“Sammy,” Dean gasped and seconds later he was all over his little brother, hands roaming everywhere, touching, palpating, giving light pressure on every limb and sore muscle. “Sammy, what happened? Fuck Sam, c'mon, talk to me.”

Sam whimpered. “Dean,” he squeezed out, and his voice sounded so small, his throat raw from all the coughing and the hot, slick blood that gushed against it with every deep inhale.

“Sammy, turn around, let me take a look at you.” Dean's whole body trembled against Sam's and the involuntary motion sent waves of pain through the boy's body, reinforcing the pounding in his head and making him groan quietly, his muscles stiffening under Dean's hands.

“C'mon you little wimp, it's not that bad, just a few bruises, nothing really. Don't be such a girl,” Dean muttered, his fingers restless against Sam's chest, his voice so thick with concern and restrained anger Sam could taste it through the blood on his tongue. “You have to lemme take a look. C'mon turn around.”

A flash of pain, pure and white and blinding, cascaded through Sam's body the moment Dean's grip tightened and his vision went blank. Blood rushed through his ears, made him deaf to his brother's reassuring words, and every sore muscle screamed in protest when Sam finally unfolded himself.

“See, it's not that bad, Sammy,” Dean murmured, but the panic on his face told Sam otherwise. He knew that he had gotten it pretty rough, felt it on every inch of his sore body though, but from the way Dean's eyes went wide and his jaw slowly set, he could tell that his body was more than a little bit messed up.

“Okay Sammy, listen up. Listen to me,” Dean whispered and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment in a desperate attempt to regain his composure, to focus on the things he had to do and not the things he _wanted_ to do, all those painful things he wanted to do to those who had messed with his little brother. “I'm gonna check your body, from toe to tip, just like in the training, to see if anything is broken,”

Sam nodded and bit back a moan that forced itself out of his mouth at the sudden motion.

“Just gimme a sign if... you know, the pain gets... unbearable.” The muscles in Dean's jaw clenched so violently Sam thought it must hurt like a bitch, but his attention was soon drawn to the throbbing pain in his shins when Dean trailed his fingers across the bruised bones. He hissed, but shook his head at the quizzical look his brother shot him. Next were the knees and though Sam felt still blood seeping into the denim of his mud-stained jeans from where he had gone down under all the beating and kicking, the bones felt neither splintered nor ripped apart. And so he just gritted his teeth in a weak attempt not to cry out and let Dean move on, his fingers inching higher, palpating his thighs, his crotch and his lower abdomen.

“Okay?” Dean muttered and his hand hovered above Sam's stomach, feather light and barely more than the hint of a touch.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed and felt another coughing fit breaking free, roaring in his lungs and clawing its way upwards. He felt more blood and saliva gurgling in his throat and panic widened his eyes the moment he realized he was probably going to choke on the ugly mixture.

“De-” he gagged and his fingers clutched his brother's jacket, yanking Dean closer, his arms flailing widely while his eyes fluttered shut. Every muscle tensed and screamed and his back arched against the cold asphalt as cough after cough rattled through his lungs, blood spilling everywhere, painting Dean's shirt and jacket in crimson ropes of pain.

“Shit Sammy, c'mere, calm down. Fuck, Sammy, listen to me, shhhh.” Dean surged forward and within the blink of an eye his arms folded themselves around the boy's shoulders, straightening him up and supporting him pleasantly. “Shhhhh Sammy, come on. Breathe, just breathe,” Dean mumbled and Sam felt his brother's fingers ghost along his bruised cheeks before they brushed his sticky hair from his forehead.

“Calm down Sammy, it's not that bad. You're fine, just some bruises and sprained bones. Not that bad, huh?” Dean's voice trembled as he pulled his little brother into his arms, picking him up like a little broken rag doll, holding him close while his violent coughs slowly eased until they turned into wet little sobs. “Shhhh Sammy, it's okay. You're safe now, I got ya; I'm right here,” Dean slurred and dropped his chin carefully on Sam's head. And it wasn't until then that Sam allowed himself to cry, loud and open-mouthed and like the little kid he still was. He howled into his brother's chest, his bruised fingers clutching to the soft leather of Dean's jacket and took in the scent that finally washed away the smell of blood and bile and fear: earth, aftershave, gun oil and fire.

“It's okay Sammy, I got you. Shhhhh, I'm here. I came for you, right?” Dean mumbled against his brother's blood-stained hair and his voice was so thick with despair it made Sam cringe. He buried himself deeper into his brother's body and let pain and anguish wash over him until there was nothing left but Dean's presence wrapped around his entire being.

They stayed like this for several minutes, Dean mumbling sweet nothings to soothe his brother, words that he knew would drag Sam's thoughts away from the searing pain in his body, and Sam just clutching him, face pressed into the warmth of his chest, smearing his tee with blood and spit and snot. And only when Sam's sobs slowly faded away and he finally stilled in his brother's arms, did Dean pull back and continue the inspection of the boy's body, slowly inching his hand across his chest, palming his fragile ribcage. He touched his face at last, fingers ghosting over bruised skin and little cuts, combing through sticky chestnut strands and finally dropping to his hips again, thumb brushing the soft tissue of Sam's belly.

“You're fine,” he mumbled again and his lips stretched into a thin smile, relief flooding his veins. “No bones broken, no internal injuries I guess,”

Sam nodded and mirrored his brother's smile, a soft curl of his blood-stained lips, his cheeks still wet with tears and snot.

“Let's get you home, princess. Can you walk?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and listened to his body, to the rattling noises in his chest, the pounding inside his guts and to the stinging pain spreading from his belly downward. He shook his head.

“Alright Sammy, that's fine,” Dean replied and his voice was hoarse, his tone soft when he slipped his arm under the boy's knees, hauling him up as he stood. “See? You're still light as a feather, should eat more of the good stuff.” He smirked, though his eyes were still dark with anger, his heart hammering against his chest in rage.

“I would if you wouldn't... w-wouldn't eat everything before I even...” Sam breathed and his fist curled into the wet front of Dean's shirt involuntarily as he ran out of breath in the middle of the sentence.

“Shhh, stop talking Sammy, just for once,” Dean instructed and Sam complied, for once not the stubborn little brat he usually was. He just nodded weakly and settled into the tender embrace of his brother, face buried into the crook of Dean's neck, small whimpers slipping past his lips with every step Dean took, sending new sparks of pain through his body.

Somehow they made it into the Impala, Dean carrying his little brother like he was the most fragile treasure in the entire world. He laid him down on the back seat, covered his bruised and battered body with the warm leather jacket and slipped behind the steering wheel.

They rode in silence and the moment the car came to a halt Dean was out of his seat, gathering his brother into his arms again and hurried into their room, kicking the door firmly shut. He stepped into the bathroom and slowly, _carefully_ , dropped Sam on top of the toilet seat.

“Can you sit up for a while?” he asked and his voice was coarse, his eyes dark with hardly covered rage.

Sam nodded, too weak to speak, too tired to protest. His whole body hurt; every muscle seemed to be torn apart and blood ran down his chin and neck, soaking into his dirty clothes.

“Gonna strip you, Sammy. I'm gonna make you feel better, gonna make it okay. Just stay awake a little longer, okay?”

Sam tried to nod again, but suddenly his head felt too heavy and he just made an understanding noise, a small whimper in the back of his blood-filled throat, before his chin sank down against his clenched chest.

And then Dean's hands were on him again, warm and soothing, their touch reassuring and insistent. They took Sam's jacket off, dropped it heedlessly onto the tiled floor, unlaced his boots and slipped them off. They peeled the boy out of his pullover, blood-covered knuckles grazing tenderly along Sam's ribcage, popped his pants open and slowly tugged down the soaked jeans.

“Grit your teeth, Sammy, this is going to hurt,” Dean murmured as stopped mid-thigh, his eyes searching for Sam's. The boy nodded weakly and hissed seconds later as he felt the rough fabric of his pants scrape against his bleeding knees, pressing gravel and dirt into his raw flesh.

“Ow,” he whined and slumped further into himself, shoulders hunched, his tiny body shrinking in the blinding lights of the bathroom.

“'M sorry, little brother. I'm really sorry.” Dean winced as he tugged the jeans the rest of the way down before he scooped himself up and brushed his fingers through Sam's wet and dirty hair. “Wait here, be back in a sec. Just need my stuff.”

With a last glance towards his brother he left, stumbled towards his duffle bag and rummaged in the depths of that goddamn thing until he found his first aid supplies. It felt like an eternity until he finally returned to the bathroom, hands full with fresh bandages, disinfectant and a bottle of water. Sam sat like he had left him, huddled into himself, his bruised hands in his lap, hazel eyes covered by a mess of shaggy chestnut hair.

Dean knelt down again. “Sam, I'm gonna take care of your wounds, you hear me? Just tell me what happened, okay?” He picked a clean washcloth out of the sink and slowly started to remove the dirt on Sam's calves and shins.

“Please d-don't get mad,” Sam replied and he sounded weary, so incredibly exhausted, his small voice thin and hoarse.

Dean shook his head as he flushed out the dirt-stained cloth, the water in the sink quickly turning from clear to muddy crimson.

“And don't try to find them a-and... make them pay, Dean, you have to promise me.”

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and blinked away the red veil of rage behind his lids. He heard his own teeth grinding against each other and it took him a few seconds to regain his composure.

“Fine,” he grunted and focused on his work again, removing crusted blood and grit from his brother's skin, inching closer to his wounded knees.

“Promise Dean, you have to promise,” Sam insisted and his voice shook in despair, hands now clutching the toilet bowl. “Please... please don't leave me alone.”

Dean let his fingers circle Sam's right calf, giving it a light squeeze. “I promise,” he muttered before he returned his attention to the boy's wounds. With the washcloth he freed the swollen abrasions of the rough dirt before he pressed a disinfectant-soaked bandage against the wound, causing Sam to cry out in pain.

“'M sorry,” Dean whispered again and watched the white fabric under his palm turn red. “But it needs to be done; you know that, Sammy.”

The boy nodded, his teeth buried in his already bruised lower lip. He knew Dean was right, but that didn't keep his body from jolting in pain when the medicine touched his bare flesh. His vision went blank and for a moment he felt sick. But than Dean spoke to him, apologized, his voice so warm and soft, and it anchored Sam, pulled him back from the edge of darkness he was facing and soothed his fluttering nerves.

“Now tell me. Come on, it will keep you awake.”

“I was at the party and i-it was... horrible Dean, really. I hated it.” Sam started slowly, his gaze boring into Dean's skull, while he deliberately tried to ignore what his brother's fingers were doing. “It was loud and messy and the girls, _god_ , I can't even believe how childish- _ow._ ”

Sam winced and a long howl spilled past his lips, but Dean's firm grip held him in place and he proceeded to smear disinfectant-salve on Sam's knees before he covered them up thoroughly with a thick layer of absorbent gauze.

“Go on,” Dean huffed out as he finished his work and wrung out the cloth again, now focusing on Sam's thighs. The pale skin was bruised and the muscles sore, but luckily they were no cuts or open wounds.

“We played that game, seven minutes in heaven, and-” Sam cut himself off to make a strangled noise when his brother curled his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt. The blood had started to dry and the cuts on his chest burned like a bitch when they re-opened again at the sharp tug.

“I know that game,” Dean murmured and slowly peeled the fabric off his brother's skin, pulling it over his head at last. “What happened next?”

“And I felt... I didn't want to play, okay. It was stupid and everyone kept on – _ow –_ giggling. It was so dull.”

“Did you kiss someone?” Dean asked and dropped the blood-stained tee. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him when he finally laid an unhindered look on his little brother, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenching so tight he swore he could hear his teeth crumble. Sam's body was littered with bruises, pale skin turning into angry red and ugly blue. Cuts spread over his slender chest and one particularly nasty gash parted the flesh right under his left arm.

“For fuck's sake, Sammy,” Dean keened and he felt his self control collapse. Rage thundered through his body and again his vision blurred into crimson red.

Sam, however, remained silent as he stared at his bruised and battered body, blood crusting everywhere, painting his skin in chopper and auburn. “It's okay,” he mumbled eventually and a small smile parted his split lips.

“No it's not, Sammy; it's not fucking okay, god,” Dean shook his head and felt his fingers tremble against the soft muscles on Sam's flanks. He swallowed dryly, squeezing his eyes shut for some seconds before he returned to work.

“Didn't kiss anyone,” the boy whispered after a few minutes of silence, his cheeks now flushed. “I just wanted to go, to sit in front of the TV with you and watch... something.” He shrugged and watched his brother rub the washcloth in slow circles over his belly. “It felt wrong, Dean, I didn't belong there. And when I wanted to go there were these guys, five of them, and they didn't want me to leave.” Sam snorted and a new coughing fit broke free, rattled through his chest and roared up his throat. His whole body shook under its force and he was grateful when he felt Dean brace him against his arms, holding him in place, steadying his swaying torso. When it was finally over, Sam felt tears trickling down his cheeks and Dean's face was blotched with red stains.

“Shit Sammy, we have to go to the hospital, you could be bleeding internally. One of the kicks might have damaged your liver or your spleen,” Dean growled and for a split of second panic flitted through his bottle green eyes.

“No,” Sam immediately protested, “it's not my guts, it's my tongue and my cheek.” And he opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue as far as possible and revealing a deep gash in the firm flesh. He must had bitten himself while the guys trashed him and now the sensitive mucosa was damaged, blood dripping out of the wound.

Relief painted itself across Dean's face and he slumped down a bit. “That's fucking awful. I can't sew it,” he stated and a small smile played around his lips. “But at least you'll shut up for the rest of the week and I can enjoy some well-deserved peace.”

Sam grinned, his teeth coated in his blood. “Fuck off, Dean.” For a moment the mood brightened up and when seconds later another deep, rattling coughing fit forced itself out of Sam's tiny body, they both clung to each other a while longer, relishing the moment of being finally safe.

“Those guys, did they follow you?” Dean asked eventually and rinsed the by now soft pink washcloth one last time before he loosened the stopper and watched the dark red water vanish into the sewage.

Sam nodded carefully. “T-two of them are going to have the worst headache tomorrow.”

“You knocked them out?” Dean's fingers cupped his brother's face when he started to free Sam's cheeks from dirt.

“Hit one square in the face; the other got a swing against the temple. Dropped like a stone.”

“Good boy.”

“But the others were... better. Not that dumb.”

Dean cleaned Sam's chin and dabbed away the blood in the corners of his mouth. His grip was soft and so was his face, open and warm, his gaze so worried, his brows furrowed in utter concentration.

“They were more alert after they saw what you're capable of,” he concluded and Sam's back straightened a bit when he heard a hint of pride in his brother's quiet voice.

“Two of them hit me in the back, one - _ow_ , _Dean_ ,” Sam hissed when Dean finally pressed a clean bandage again soaked with disinfectant against the cut on Sam's temple.

“Shhh, I'm sorry Sammy, it's okay,” the hunter mumbled as he towered over his little brother. “They hit you in the back? Fucking losers.”

Sam nodded as soon as Dean let go of his face. “And then... everything... is just really blurry. I don't remember much.” The boy trembled as he watched his big brother grabbing his sewing kit. “Do you really have to...?” he nodded towards the needles and thread.

“I'm so sorry Sammy, but I need to see to the cut under your arm, it's pretty damn deep,” Dean explained, defeated, and his voice was heavy with sorrow. He handed his brother the water bottle.

“Drink and then we'll get it done. I promise I'm gonna be as careful as possible.” And with that he prepared the needle and got to work.

Sam didn't remember the next half an hour very well. It was nothing but a blur of searing pain and aching flesh. He felt the needle piercing his skin, the sharp tug of the string when it threaded through his muscles and the soothing touch of his brother, anchoring him, keeping him warm. But he wasn't really there, his mind numb with pain, his vision hazy with exhaustion. He felt weak from the blood loss and eventually his head lolled to the side, dropping onto Dean's shoulder where it stayed until they were finally done.

It was Dean's voice that fetched him back from the menacing black abyss he was staring into for endless minutes. “Sammy, I'm done. You're good,” the hunter mumbled and combed his fingers through his brother's damp hair. “I patched you up. You're fine.”

“S-sure?” Sam slurred and tried to move his arms as he wanted to give in to the urge to circle them around Dean's neck.

“Pretty sure, Sammy,” Dean replied softly and nuzzled the boy's neck, lips tracing the outlines of a nasty bruise. “C'mon, we're gonna get you up and in bed.”

It sounded like heaven to Sam and he sighed quietly, his body falling against Dean as his brother picked him up once again. The pain in his head was dull and pounded against his skull as it made its way south, spreading into every muscle and sinew. He felt so entirely defeated, even his mind seemed to hurt.

“Don't wanna sleep alone.”

“You don't have to.”

Sam felt the softness of the mattress under his aching bones. “Promise me De, promise you won't go a-away.”

“I promise.” Dean's voice was warm and soothing, his touch steady as he tucked his brother in.

“You're not gonna leave and beat the shit... beat the shit out of those assholes, right?”

“Right, Sammy,”

The boy made a whimpering noise when his brother's hand left his forehead. He needed Dean by his side, right now.

“Don't go,” he wheezed and cracked an eye open, chasing his brother's touch. Dean's voice was a soft rumble in the quiet motel room when he replied.

“I'm just gonna clean things up, I'm right here, I'm not gonna leave.”

“I'll wait then,” Sam mumbled, the look on his bruised and swollen face stern, his gaze following Dean into the bathroom, determined to stay awake until his big brother returned.

He almost made it. _Almost_. But when Dean returned ten minutes later, his hands and face free from blood, his soaked tee removed from his chest, he found his little brother sound asleep under the covers.

“There you go,” Dean whispered as he kicked his boots off and went through the nightly routine, closing windows, locking the door, checking the weapons under the bed and the knife under the pillow before he finally allowed himself to crawl between the sheets.

He joined his little brother with a sigh, moving carefully so as not to jostle Sam's injured body, and once again checked the multiple bandages that twisted around his knees and chest, the small patch of gauze that covered up the gash on his temple.

“De,” Sam mumbled as he felt his brother's body flush against his own, his comforting warmth seeping into his aching flesh.

Dean couldn't help but press his lips against the nape of the boy's neck. “Shhh, it's okay Sammy, I'm here, I'm not gonna go anywhere. Sleep, Sammy.” He breathed against the warm skin and inhaled deeply, searching for his brother's scent under the sharp smell of disinfectant and blood.

“Don't go,” Sam slurred in his sleep and his chest heaved under the effort to breathe, the terrifying rattle finally easing.

“I'm here. I'll keep you safe, I'll protect you,” Dean promised and he meant it. And he swore to himself that this would be the last time he would have to sew his little brother back together.

If only he knew how terribly wrong he was.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I just needed some Dean/Sam hurt comfort okay, just Dean taking care of his bruised and battered and  
> trashed little brother. Just that. Nothing more. UGH I suck.


End file.
